“Fred Lobbrecht?” he interrupted. “You think I didn’t know he was killed? Your news is four hours old.” He patted the block of his cell phone inside a cargo pocket. “What century do you think we’re living in, Captain?”
Chants and bullhorns caused them to turn and look across the square. On the far side of the iconic Stanford White–designed marble arch, several dozen protesters had assembled, shouting, “Free Mehmoud! Free Mehmoud!” and carrying picket signs bearing Arabic inscriptions. Theirs was part of the growing angry response in the wake of the NYPD’s Organized Crime Unit’s busting a ring that had been taking advantage of diplomatic ties to smuggle counterfeit currency into the US through Syria. Mehmoud Algafari, the son of a Syrian UN mission employee, had been arrested as part of the ring, and the controversy concerned whether, as the relative of a diplomat, he was protected by diplomatic immunity, or whether his arrest constituted a US kick in the teeth to Assad’s regime, using Mehmoud as a scapegoat.
“NYU undergrads organizing a feel-good march up to the UN because that diplomat’s kid, or whatever, got busted,” explained Backhouse with a shake of his head. “Like that’s going to fucking do anything.” Without seeming to have turned a page, he casually added, “Freddy Lobbrecht was murdered. Please tell me you know it wasn’t any accident.”
Heat glanced at Rook then back to the engineer. “We…see that as a possibility.”
“A possibility? My respect for you is this close to Hindenburging.” He tilted his head up to Rook, who was still standing. “Have you paid attention to anything we have discussed? Do you have any idea what they will do to keep this evidence under wraps?”
“Now you’re getting to why I needed to see you,” said Heat. She had decided to play into what she read as Backhouse’s compulsion to know better, to know more than anyone else, by subordinating herself. “Rook has been tight-lipped. He keeps his secrets. I need to ask you to enlighten me. Help me understa—” Nikki stopped because she had lost his attention, and not just a little. Her studious listener had broken eye contact and was staring over her shoulder in the same direction as Rook, whose attention had apparently been drawn there first. Heat turned to see what the hell they were so intent on. She heard it before she saw it.
It could have been a swarm of bees. But as it drew closer, Heat was reminded of the purring hum made by a Weedwacker, though no gardeners were trimming the edges of the lawns that day. And the buzzing came from somewhere above.
“Eleven o’clock,” said Rook. Backhouse stood first, then Nikki joined him, both scanning the far side of the park. A small dot resolved out of the bright western sky, gently hovering between the Judson Memorial Church steeple and the brick apartment tower on McDougal.
“How cool is that?” Backhouse, more engaged than before, stared in awe. “Never seen one of those in an urban area before.”
“Is that a drone?” asked Heat.
“Hmm, respect is rebuilding, Captain Heat,” said the engineer.
Rook made a visor of his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “I’ve seen drones in the Middle East and in the Caucasus, but they were military grade. Bigger, you know?”
“Yeah, like flying torpedoes,” agreed Backhouse, whose inner nerd was somehow even nerdier than his outer persona. “This one is hobby grade. You should definitely check them out on YouTube, they’re like flying Roombas.”
With some pride, Rook said, “I fly a hobby helicopter.”
“Do you, grampa?” Backhouse snorted a laugh. Rook’s expression lost all its joy.